


An Impromptu Salon

by Eglantine



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Gen, Multi, Party Planning, bad planning, death to neoclassicists
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-30
Updated: 2018-01-30
Packaged: 2019-03-11 13:50:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,729
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13525596
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eglantine/pseuds/Eglantine
Summary: Bossuet agrees to host a salon to get in the good graces of a very pretty poet and painter. Now he just has to find a place to do it.





	An Impromptu Salon

“Yes,” Bossuet said (goodness but her eyes were blue). “Yes, I think we should absolutely have some kind of—make an evening of it, you know.” (lord his hair looked soft) “A salon.” 

They stood arm in arm, the very pretty poet and the very pretty painter—the exact nature of their relationship was not something Bossuet had yet managed to precisely discern: he was very confident they weren’t related—cousins, at the very most—and nor did he think they were married. At least not officially married, in any way a church or priest or parish register would recognize. 

He did know what he would like his relationship to the pair of them to be. And he was starting to suspect they might not disagree. This confidence emboldened him.

Which was always, he reflected later, the first step on the road to disaster. 

“I’d be happy to host it,” Lesgle went on. “Display some of your art, hear some of your poetry… I have no lack of friends who would be beside themselves with delight to attend. The end of the week, perhaps?”

“Simply tell us where to be,” said the painter eagerly. “You’re really too kind.”

“On the contrary, you’re doing me a kindness,” Bossuet replied. “I will have word to you by tomorrow.” 

Which gave him twenty-four hours to find both of those things out himself. 

But really, he wasn’t troubled. As soon as they’d bid their farewells, Bossuet made his way straight for Joly’s flat. It was perfect: Musichetta had hosted small salons there before. Large enough, a nice neighborhood, always relatively clean. Bossuet bounded up the stairs, already allowing himself to imagine the various directions the evening might go once the poetry and painting were done with. 

The door was shut and he’d recently lost his key, so he gave a brisk knock. No answer. He tried again—again, no response. Well, clearly Joly was out, he’d just come back la—oh, no, there—the lock rattled, the knob turned. Enter Joly, ill. 

“Oh,” Bossuet said, then laughed. Then said, “Sorry. Goodness, you look wretched.” 

“Just a cold, I thidk,” Joly croaked, stepping aside so that Bossuet could come in. “Or idfluedza? But I dod’t have a fever. –yet.” 

Bossuet watched as Joly sneezed wetly into a handkerchief several times, trying to gauge whether it sounded like a cold that would be mostly finished by the end of the week. Oh, who was he kidding? Joly was never finished with a cold within a week. He knew that Joly would certainly still say yes to hosting if he asked, but he couldn’t help but think his new friends would appreciate the host of the salon sneezing all over their paintings and through their poetry readings. Never mind that it certainly would do no good towards Joly’s quick recovery. 

“Perhaps some rest?” Bossuet said. 

“Yes, yes,” Joly said with a sigh. “I fell asleep readig ad I’ve beed asleep all bordig. What have you beed doig?” 

“Making new friends,” Bossuet replied. “I’ll come by this evening and tell you all about them—and bring you something hot to eat, eh? But for now I’m afraid I’ve got an errand to run.” 

“Oh,” Joly said, looking faintly disappointed. This expression then twisted into an attempt to hold back a sneeze, and then a sneeze. “Alright.”

Of course, Joly’s faint disappointment was an expression Bossuet had no strength to withstand. So the afternoon was well advanced—nearly evening—by the time he departed at last in search of a new host for the salon. 

Bahorel was an obvious second choice. He was frequently a host of parties slightly wilder than those Bossuet suspected his poet and painter were used to, but in the interests of helping a friend, Bossuet was sure that Bahorel would be happy to temporarily change his style—or surrender his room to allow Bossuet to do so. 

“But of course,” was Bahorel’s immediate response. 

“It’s so lovely,” Jehan cried, blushing. “I can think of no better gesture of affection, than to embrace their art and seek to share it with the world!”

“With some of my friends, anyway,” Bossuet said. “Fitting the whole world into this flat might be a bit much to ask.” 

“Who are they?” Bahorel asked. 

“Toinette Deniau and Jules Lavoie,” Bossuet replied. 

Bahorel’s face suddenly went stony. “Say that again.” So Bossuet did.

“You would ask me— _you_ would ask _me_ —to host _Neoclassicists_ in my _home?_ ” 

“Oh please!” Bossuet said. “They’re hardly Neoclassicists! They’re not dull or stuffy at all, and the poem I happened to read wasn’t tedious in the least!” 

But Bahorel wasn’t to be reasoned with. This, Bossuet reflected, was the downside to Bahorel knowing absolutely everyone. “No! Never! Out of the question! I will not do it!” 

“Jehan?” Bossuet said, turning to him. Surely he would be more mild-mannered about the whole thing. “What about your place?” 

Jehan went very pink—Bossuet was momentarily concerned he was just going to grow redder and redder until he burst like badly canned jam—but at last he burst out, “Oh, I couldn’t!” 

Bossuet sighed. “I—admire your dedication to your principles, I suppose.” 

And with a tirade from Bahorel as payment for his pains, Bossuet set off once more. He was actually nearest to Grantaire’s flat out of anyone, but not only did he know Grantaire wouldn’t be there, he didn’t want to ask—he didn’t remotely trust Grantaire not to find some way to try to ruin his efforts, intentionally or otherwise. Grantaire would be invited, of course, but not as host. 

Feuilly would be invited too, of course, but was also an impractical host—willing, doubtless, but with several roommates who, like him, worked early—not particularly able. 

But he wasn’t too far from Courfeyrac’s. His flat wasn’t very big, and wasn’t quite as conveniently located as his old one had been—not for the purposes of poetry, anyway. But Courfeyrac was always up for parties, for helping friends, and for helping friends make new friends, so he was surely a safe bet.

But it was not Courfeyrac who opened the door.

“Goodness!” Bossuet said. “Marius! It’s been an absolute age. Are you living with Courfeyrac again?” 

“Yes,” Marius said. He looked like he hadn’t slept in about a month (as opposed to his usual state of looking like he hadn’t slept in about a week). Bossuet waited to see if he was going to volunteer any further information, but—no. No, of course he wasn’t. 

“Is Courfeyrac in?” Bossuet asked cheerfully, though his spirits were sinking. If Courfeyrac were still on his own, Bossuet didn’t doubt he wouldn’t hesitate, but with Marius…

“I really think I’d better not,” Courfeyrac said. He was, true to Marius’s directions, at a local café. “Marius, you know. He turned up one day looking like a mouse with a cat on his tail. If I were to host a party of poets, I think he’d actually dig himself a little hole and move into the wall. I’m awfully sorry. Have you asked Bahorel?”

“Unfortunately, yes,” Bossuet said. “I’m surprised he didn’t duel me for it. No, I’m afraid I’m forced to resort to desperate measures.” 

“That’s a bit dramatic,” Combeferre said when Bossuet used this phrase on him. “You know I like poetry. I’ve never hosted a salon, of course, but I’m perfectly willing to give it a try. Here, come in and have a look, see if it will suit.”

Bossuet had never seen Combeferre’s new rooms—he’d been living in the intern quarters at Necker until very recently. So he happily stepped inside. And stopped. 

Combeferre’s décor was as follows: some half-wilted flowers (fine); a skull (acceptable, though he couldn’t help but remember that the pair were, apparently, not Romantics and thus might be more troubled than most of his poetic friends would be); and some… jars…? 

“Combeferre,” Bossuet said calmly. “What in the name of all that is holy are those?”

“Oh,” Combeferre said, with a faint air of surprise, as if he hadn’t been expecting Bossuet to notice the row of strange, fluid-filled jars proudly and prominently displayed in the front room. “They’re quite remarkable, actually. That one is the fetus of a cow that—”

Bossuet nodded along and did not listen to a single word after ‘fetus of a cow.’ All he could do from that point forward was imagine having to offer this explanation to the poet or the painter and subsequently attempting to kiss them under the cow fetus’s watchful—did it have eyes? No, don’t ask. 

“Mm,” Bossuet said. “On second thought, you know, I’m afraid I don’t think it’s large enough. There are some sizeable paintings we’d hope to display, you see.” 

“Yes, of course.” Combeferre’s slight smile suggested that Bossuet’s lie perhaps hadn’t been entirely convincing. “That’s the trouble with the second floor, of course—sometimes the ceilings aren’t as high.” 

“I live on the ground floor.” Bossuet wheeled around: he hadn’t even heard Enjolras step into the doorway. “What do you need a room for?”

“Um,” he said. “Hm.”

Combeferre, ever helpful, supplied, “For a literary salon. Poetry readings and paintings displayed.” 

“Oh, I see,” Enjolras said. “Well, you’re certainly welcome to my flat, if you have need of it.” 

Bossuet tried to imagine flirting successfully with any human being whilst Enjolras was also in the room. It was either Enjolras or Grantaire, he realized ruefully. Or Combeferre’s cow fetus in a jar. 

“So what did you edd up tellig theb?” Joly asked, heaving himself from his nest of blankets on the sofa when Bossuet walked in the next morning. 

“I tried proposing we hold it out-of-doors—a poetry reading in the middle of the Luxembourg!—just to see how they’d respond. Jehan would have liked it. They thought I was joking.” Bossuet dropped down onto the arm of the sofa, the only place not covered with blankets or used handkerchiefs. “So then I decided to try telling the truth—it does work sometimes, you know—but they were similarly unimpressed.” 

He sighed and leaned against the back of the sofa. “So, there we have it. My career as a saloniste is over before it began. I’ve nothing to do for the rest of the week but sit here with you.” 

“Oh.” Joly said. “What a pity.”


End file.
